


Hate Is A Strong Word (But Entirely Accurate)

by hidley



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Domestic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 13:52:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1430869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hidley/pseuds/hidley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simmons comes into the base to find Grif sprawled on the floor watching television. Domesticity ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hate Is A Strong Word (But Entirely Accurate)

'What are you doing?'

'What the fuck do you think I'm doing. Watching TV.'

'Yeah I got that much, dumbass. I mean why the hell are you watching television in the middle of the floor? There's a couch right the fuck behind you.'

'Meh,' Grif shrugged, not sparing the man behind him a glance. 'Couch was there. Floor was there. I'm not fussy about where I rest, Simmons.'

'You're a fucking idiot.'

'Yeah? Well you're a fucking nerd.'

'How is that even relevant?'

'Always relevant, Simmons. Always relevant.'

'Whatever, you got any of those marshmallow things left?'

This time Grif actually turned his head around completely, looking up at his team mate with a sly smirk on his face.

'Oh shut the fuck up with that look. I'm hungry.'

'No, no, don't let me stop you. They should be in the drawer with all those little spiky grenade things,' Grif said, reaching across himself to pick up a pack of oreos, before shoving several into his mouth.

Simmons held himself back from ranting about inappropriate storage of food and walked across the room towards the kitchen. 'Thanks.'

'M'no pro-lem.'

'Don't talk with your mouth full.'

'Shu-b ub.'

Pulling open the drawer closest to the fridge, Simmons frowned at the array of grenade pins and general crap practically overflowing within it. Surely there was another fucking place they could use to store Grif's fucking comfort food?

He turned his head a fraction to the left and open the next drawer over. Empty.

Literally that fucking easy.

As he emptied the dirty drawer of everything edible, and dumping it in the new 'food place', he made a mental note not to tell Grif about it and see how long it took him to figure out where his precious candy had all gone. He heard the other soldier shifting around in the other room, no doubt to switch channels or something.

To be honest, Simmons was surprised he hadn't invented some ridiculous tool to allow him to change channels without moving. It would certainly be entertaining to watch him try and replicate a TV remote without having one there to copy from. Their TV had been Simmons' Frankenstein project a few years ago, made by combining together the screen and parts from an old computer with one of their spare radios. He couldn't get much of a signal on it, not that he expected to, but he did manage to get some variation of a video player functioning, something that initially he thought would be useless since they had nothing to play on it, until he mentioned it to Grif and it turned out that he had a stash of videos in amongst all the stuff he brought from home. God knows what for.

That night, he and Grif had sat down to watch their first of what would be hundreds of play throughs of 'Rush Hour 2', Sarge having refused flat out to sit with them and Donut backing out because he didn't like how it was 'so violent'.

('You're in a fucking war, Donut. What constitutes as 'too violent' in your head?'

'Yeah, but we don't much actual shooting, Simmons! We just spend most of our time here, at the base! Polishing our armour and painting our-'

'No, that's just what _you_ do, Donut.')

As far as Simmons could remember, him making that video player was the first time Grif had looked at him with honest to god admiration. And also the first and last time he ever really felt proud of something.

Smiling slightly, he finished unloading the sweets and grabbed a peep, tearing off the wrapping as he padded back into the other room.

Grif was still sprawled on the floor, but had moved so his head was propped up against the side of the couch. Simmons though briefly about getting him a blanket, but dismissed it almost immediately. He threw himself down on the pillows above Grif's head, making the man on the floor grunt and shoot a glare up in Simmons' general direction.

'Fuck off, asshole. You could just sit on the fucking sofa instead of bending your neck trying to pretend you're more comfortable down there.' Simmons bit into the marshmallow, ripping off a piece and chewing on it purposefully.

After a second, he felt Grif looking at him, so he tilted his head down to glare back. Grif was frowning at him, like he was watching something bizarre.

'What, Grif?'

The frown slowly turned into an almost amazed smirk. 'Nothing. I've just never seen a person look so angry whilst eating a marshmallow candy before.'

'Fuck off,' Simmons replied shortly, returning his gaze to the television and biting another piece off.

Grif switched grinning for full out laughter at the sight, falling down the edge of the couch, clutching his stomach.

'I said fuck off, Grif!'

'Oh, Simmons,' Grif wiped his eyes with the back of his hand while the maroon solider seethed. Seriously, what was so fucking funny about the way he ate?

Annoyed, Simmons kicked the back of Grif's head, earning himself a yelp and a curse that brought the grin back to his face.

'Sit up here on the fucking couch, idiot.'

'M'you're the idiot,' Grif muttered as he pulled himself up onto the sofa cushions, rubbing his head.

'Shut up, I wanna see what happens,' Simmons replied with a grin, gesturing to Chris Tucker's face on the screen. 'S'been a whole three days since I saw this.'

Grif shot a glance at him that turned into a smile and let his head fall away from the bump on his head. 'Meh, I heard there's some Chinese shit. They're in a rush. Pretty much it.'

Throwing the rest of his marshmallow treat at him, Simmons huffed a laugh, watching Grif's face light up as he caught it clumsily seconds before devouring it.

'Idiot.'

'Hey, dude you're the one watching fucking Rush Hour with me for the millionth time.'

 _Nine hundred and sixth_ , Simmons' mechanic mind supplies.

'Yeah,' he pulled his feet up, dumping them on Grif's lap, grin widening as the other man loudly protested. 'I guess I am.'

'You're an asshole,' Grif muttered angrily, crossing his arms, but making no move to push Simmons' feet off of him. 

 


End file.
